


The Prime Minister's Brother

by IceSpirit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock AU, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceSpirit/pseuds/IceSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many can't seem to get past the idea of Sherlock Holmes, the Prime Minister's younger brother.</p>
<p>Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The News

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 2004 movie First Daughter. The story line, however, will be different. Not Brit-picked nor beta read.

 


	2. Pre-Trial Brief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A settlement of facts.

"...departure is at 0900H. Your personal detail has been informed of the itinerary..."

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes as he lazily plucked through the violin strings, not even bothering to feign attention towards Andrea or whatever her name is. If she was offended, her face did not betray any sign. After all, it is impossible to work for Mycroft Holmes without having to deal with his younger sibling. Undeterred, the said woman pressed on.

"Your flat has already been equipped with the necessary furnishings, including the light microscope, incubator and autoclave."

At this, Sherlock's eyes lit up a bit, accompanied by a slight upturn of the edges of his lips. Perhaps Mycroft's senses are yet to be dulled by the pompous politicians he surround himself with.

"However, be reminded that the building prohibits activities involving fire..."

_Dull. Dull. Dull._

With angry vibrations from the instrument cradled on his lap, Sherlock effectively interrupted Angela's litany. He could no longer bear the tediousness of it all.

The unpleasant sound might have been intended to stop Anthea (her proper alias) from speaking but, it did not prevent her from raising one well-groomed eyebrow, and shooting the man-child the patronizing look which never fails to provoke irritation.

Sherlock's facial features crumpled with displeasure as he replaced his violin back to its case. He strode towards the bookcase behind the woman and opened a fresh package of nicotine patches sitting on one of the shelves. Eyeing his brother's secretary defiantly, Sherlock slapped three patches on his left arm.

"No need to bore me with useless details. Suffice to say that Mycroft expects me to go along with his whims and manipulations," he said with a sneer to which Anthea responded with a scoff. Sherlock glared at her and in return, her facial expression transformed into something that conveyed _'whose fault is that?_ '.

He ignored her demeanor. In fact, he doesn’t care much for her defiant manner. It is refreshing despite her being one of his brother's minions. Most people would simply back down or pretend to take no offense from his 'unconventional tendencies' simply because of his brother's position in society. Many can't seem to get past the idea of Sherlock Holmes, the Prime Minister's younger brother. However, Anthea does not seem to fall into such idiocy and for that reason alone, Sherlock finds her tolerable.

Feeling the initial rush of nicotine in his system, Sherlock snapped his eyelids close and relished in the soothing sensation.

"I may have to... _abide,_ " he enunciated venomously, "by his conditions but it does not mean I have to enjoy it."

Any intentions to go around said conditions remained unspoken of course.

He'll never admit it out loud but the situation would entirely be different had he not allowed himself to be deluded by _James Moriarty._ The memory of the fact that he allowed himself to lose control makes his temper flare. He has a superior intellect, always above everything. He was supposed to be in control. To have fallen to such depth, unthinkable. In end, he spiraled into drug dependence that almost sent him early into the coffin had he not been found and subjected to appropriate medical intervention.

Surviving in the aftermath of the said incident was painful to say the least. Doubt haunted him as soon as he realized what had transpired. His mind, the only thing he held with outmost trust, failed him. The panic and fear that enveloped him in the early hours after regaining consciousness, the disappointed gaze Mycroft sent his way as he lay weak on the hospital bed, Mummy's muffled tears when she thought he was asleep--all of it still sends shivers down his spine whenever he allowed himself to stray in that particular recesses of his mind palace. No matter how many times he tried to delete the entire debacle, bits and pieces remained, like a virus that won’t go away.

The subsequent process of getting himself clean proved to be no less difficult.

Counselors pretended to understand. Looks of pity thrown from here and there. Same goes with the others residing in the facility. They could not possibly fathom the horror of discovering his own fallibility. Years since he began to understand the world under his mother's tutelage and his father's affections, his intellect had always been his constant companion. Amidst the taunts and insults from other children, Sherlock had never felt lonely for he relied on his mind to be master of himself. The other children are at fault for they could not accept that he's right about their hidden mischief and inadequacies.

The single incident shattered the very foundation of his being. Words could not describe the struggle he had to face in trying to pick-up the pieces and find himself once again.

He opened his eyes. No use on dwelling on the past.

Sherlock turned towards Anthea, eyebrows raised, "Well? Anything else you want to bore me with?"

"The Prime Minister wishes to inform you that he will be dropping by your university residence to help you settle in," Anthea spoke, eyes glued on her mobile phone.

Sherlock grunted in displeasure.

"Professor Holmes will be accompanying him," she added pointedly.

With a grudging mumble, Sherlock wordlessly conceded.

Satisfied, Anthea uncrossed her legs to stand up and headed for the door then paused once more, "good night, Mr. Holmes. Best of luck on your studies."

A soft click told Sherlock that he's alone at last. For a few moments, he remained still and watched the dancing flames that warm the room. He then decided to pick-up his violin and played a mellow tune that flitted through the quiet halls of the Holmes Manor.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback will be appreciated. :)


End file.
